


I'm Gonna Make This Place Your Home

by purplebutterflies



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Multi, Post-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2563238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplebutterflies/pseuds/purplebutterflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Has anyone ever asked Joaquín to stay?"</p><p>It was a blindingly simple question that hit Manolo with the strength of a rampaging bull. But then, María always asked the most difficult questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Gonna Make This Place Your Home

It would have been nice, Manolo reflected, if they had been able to rest after defeating Chakal. They had certainly earned it. But no, with a marriage came more than just a wedding. As suddenly enthused as General Posada was about having Manolo as a son-in-law, he still threw a fit when they revealed they would live at Casa Sanchez instead of Casa Posada with him. María loved her father, but he was smothering. Plus the soldados very nearly lived at Casa Posada, and María didn't do well around drunk or ignorant men, which they were most of the time and all of the time, respectively.

Besides, Manolo couldn't bear to let his childhood home stand empty. He admitted as much to her in a hushed voice and was met with an understanding kiss.

Most of María's things were still packed away, so he and Joaquín hauled them over during the course of an afternoon. There was some redecorating to be done. He and María moved to the master bedroom, and his childhood room was cleaned up slightly for guests. During the packing and unpacking Manolo found a pair of wanted posters for the Adelita sisters, detailing all kinds of heinous and probably trumped up charges. The twins would have loved them. He hung the posters, along with new pictures of his father and María's mother, in the family room with the rest.

With Manolo's blessing, María got rid of all the bull horns and furs that made up a disproportionate amount of the Sanchez family's decorations. In their place she put paintings and statues she had collected in Europe. Some of them, she told Manolo with shy pride, were her own work, and he took special care with those.

Joaquín was there to help as well, if pestering Manolo while María laughed at them both counted as help. Now Manolo huffed, adjusting one of María's larger paintings against the wall and called back to Joaquín. "How does this look?"

"Hm, I dunno, I'm not really seeing it."

He shifted it to the left. "How about now?"

"Yeah, still not seeing it."

"Well, where does it need to go? More up, more down, more left, more--" Manolo had loosened his grip on the painting to glance back at Joaquín, and at the sight stopped and sighed. "Joaquín. Turn around."

Joaquín was turned just far enough away that Manolo could only see his eyepatch, and he couldn't see Manolo at all. María, who had just walked into the room, laughed.

Joaquín obligingly turned even further away. "No! Towards me!" Manolo yelled. María collapsed against the wall in a fit of giggles.

"Oh!" Joaquín said. Finally Manolo could see his eye, sparkling with mirth. "Oh yeah, you got it, looks perfect." Manolo shook his head and asked him for the hammer.

When the work was done they would stay up until all hours of the night, all three of them. "I should go," Joaquín would say several times a night, only for one or the other to push him back down.

"Stay," María said, and that was enough. "I haven't seen you in years. I want to hear everything." The three amigos were back together, and somehow this seemed more important than their fights, the wedding, any of it. So Joaquín smiled and stayed. It was always closer to dawn than dusk when he finally staggered back to Casa Posada.

On the third night, at María's prompting, Manolo asked him to stay the night. "I don't know," Joaquín said, looking uncommonly hesitant. "I know you guys just got married and--I don't want to make it awkward, you know?"

"No awkwardness tonight, I promise," Manolo said. Of course, as soon as María heard about that promise she was insistent on breaking it, so Manolo spent most of the evening half worrying about the thickness of the walls. But it was worth it in the morning, when they came out to Joaquín brandishing a spatula like a sword and making them breakfast. He grinned and winked at them both, which could have meant anything but made Manolo blush just the same.

It was perfect. But it wasn't forever. Joaquín hadn't intended to stay for long, and now he had no reason to change his plans. María was able to beg a few more days than expected out of him, and a promise to return before too very long, but he still left. He always did. María watched him go and chewed on the inside of her lip.

"Is everything alright?" Manolo slipped an arm around her waist.

"I guess it's just going to take some getting used to," she said, leaning into him. "I've never been in San Angel without Joaquín. He's part of home to me." Manolo was quiet. After all, he'd been watching Joaquín leave for years.

They went back inside and tried to ignore how the house was just a bit too quiet without Joaquín's booming laughter.

* * *

"Who was your first love?" María asked him one day. She asked so many questions of him. Trying to fill the spaces in their lives, all she had missed. His clever, inquisitive wife.

They'd spent the morning moving furniture here and there, taking things down and putting them back up and moving them again. Doing their best to make their house feel like a shared home. It was hard work, and they weren't near done yet. But enough for today, Manolo had said, and convinced her to relax with him on the couch.

Some of María's questions tripped him up, made him think, even made him doubt himself. Not this one. " _You_ were my first love," Manolo said without a moment of hesitation.

María scoffed and batted at his knee. "How predictable."

"It is true!" Manolo said with a smile. "And I have loved you ever since."

She couldn't help but smile. _How predictable_. But still she sat an arm's length away, and flicked his shoulder as she said, "I appreciate your dedication, husband, but I was hoping for a more interesting story than that."

"Like in one of your novels?" He slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her close. "Forgive me, mi amor. I guess I don't have those kinds of stories."

"This is very much like one of my novels," she said, with a far off look and the hint of a frown.

To distract her, he asked, "Who was your first love?"

He had, even while the question came from his mouth, considered every possibility. Now she might be in too much of a snit to say it was him, even if it was true. One thing María was not, one thing she couldn't abide to be, was _predictable_.

It might not be him though. Why not Joaquín? Who had taken care of her and who, strange as it was to think now, had so often been the voice of reason in their childhood. Manolo would follow María to the ends of the world, and Joaquín would go with them to hold them back from the edge. Or perhaps it was a European boy, surrounded and made dazzling by the culture and art María loved so much. Or another convent girl, to steal into her bed at night and whisper together until dawn found them. María, he knew, had many stories.

She tilted her head, pursed her lips, and said, "Chuy."

He burst into laughter, the kind that robbed his voice with its force and made his whole chest shake. María laughed too, and buried her face in his neck. "Sorry, sorry! I was trying to be honest, but I guess that was strange."

"No," he managed, nuzzling her hair even as his body trembled with the aftershocks of his laughter. "No, I'm happy he's so dear to you. That's what I wanted when I gave him to you."

María looked up, sliding her cheek against his and giving him a gentle kiss. "And in loving him, I suppose I loved you."

"I am so thankful," he said, and kissed her again.

For a moment her eyes were fuzzy and soft, melting into the warmth of _them_. He felt like that almost all the time. But María's mind was too quick to dwell for long, and soon enough she focused again. This time her gaze was sharp enough to cut right through him. "Tell me, then," she said, her fingers spider walking up his sleeve, "who was your first kiss?" When he waited a beat too long, she said, "And don't you try to say it was me again, I'm not that naive."

Manolo chuckled once, dryly, and looked out across the room. General Posada had, as a gift, given them an old heirloom cocktail table. It was too large to fit comfortably in their sitting room, but they had put it in anyway, and Manolo's knees knocked against it now. He studied the old stains, the worn scratches from knives and swords, instead of looking at María.

"Joaquín. Joaquín was my first kiss."

She said nothing, and when he finally turned towards her, he found her beaming, eyes as bright and brilliant as a million stars.

* * *

When Joaquín came back into town these day, he didn't bound down from his horse. His smile was as cocksure as ever, his swagger intact, but he had grown accomplished in sidestepping the women who threw themselves at him, at deflecting the men who crowded around to shake his hand and slap his back. He kept his back straight, his gait even, until he stepped into Manolo and María's house. Then he dipped with the weight of his wounds, favored one leg or the other, and hissed in pain when they ushered him into a chair.

They didn't have to beg him to stay in their guest room anymore. He would have been embarrassed and uncomfortable anywhere else. Honestly, they would have been uncomfortable too, knowing he was almost but not quite close enough.

How strange, Manolo thought every time he saw bright red lines and yellow-purple clouds against Joaquín's skin. How strange that he had simply accepted that Joaquín was never wounded, no matter what stunt he pulled or how many fights he got into. Shouldn't he have outgrown the idea that some people were just too strong to hurt the same time he outgrew playing with marbles and games of pretend? But then Joaquín was built up to be a legend before he was even allowed to grow into the man he would become.

María was no doctor, but she bought the supplies and read as many books as she could find. She squinted at one now, standing behind a seated Joaquín and preparing to treat a particularly nasty gash on his shoulder. It would need stitches. Manolo sat next to Joaquín, facing María, and tried to distract him from the pain.

"You need to work on a new fighting style, my friend," he said.

"You think that, but let me tell you, you barrel at a bunch of scumbags screaming your head off, they're freaked out, man. Running this way and that, yelling at each other. 'This guy's loco!' Lets you get some good licks in." Joaquín actually winked. Manolo tried not to laugh, especially since María was doing the same on the other side of Joaquín and needed to keep her hands steady, but it was hard.

"At least work on your blocking, eh?" Manolo said.

"I am all about that, actually. Getting better every day. Weaving in and out, dodging like _fwhit, fwhit,_ BOOM son!" Now Manolo did laugh, because he knew Joaquín wanted him to. Laughing was almost harder than not, because in his head he could see how Joaquín would move if he wasn't hurt. If he could move the way he wanted to. Waving his hands to show where the bandidos were, weaving his whole body for the dodging, and then probably exploding into a pretend punch. Finishing the story with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed with pride as Manolo and María laughed on either side of him.

Now María and Manolo were on either side, but María was too focused to laugh, and Joaquín had to hold his whole body still. One hand gripped the fabric at his knee. The other was in Manolo's. It was the only way he would show he was in pain, even now.

"Why don't you just go to the doctor, brother?" Behind them, where Joaquín couldn't see, María's eyes met Manolo's. Maybe it wasn't the time for such questions, but once Joaquín was healed he wouldn't want to talk about it. They knew this. "You're the town hero no matter what. Even if you get into a few rough scrapes."

Joaquín's eyes flitted between the table, the wall, and his hand in Manolo's. "Yeah, well." There was a twitch that wanted to be a shrug, if María hadn't been cleaning his wound. He looked at Manolo. "The weight of expectations and all that, et cetera, et cetera."

"What et cetera?"

"I'm trying to be deep, Manny, don't ruin this for me."

They both laughed at that, until María's needle poked into him and his hand spasmed around Manolo's in pain. Manolo returned the grip in kind, and María ran her hand down his back in an apology before continuing on.

"I think this works out well for you," Manolo said, wanting nothing more than to ease the crease between Joaquín's eyes.

"How do you figure that?" he asked, soft and curious. Not angry. Not bitter, even as he tried to suppress the shudders every time María pricked him.

"You like talking about your medals. Well, now you have scars. They're like, medals for your skin! You never have to stop talking again!"

A bad time for a joke, maybe. The hand that had been fisted on Joaquín's knee was now fisted in his mouth instead as he tried very, very hard not to mess up María's work. "Manolo," she chided, but Joaquín had a smile now, and that's what mattered.

"Oh, this?" Manolo said, trying to imitate Joaquín’s swagger. He pointed at a pockmarked dip in the skin of Joaquín's arms. "That's from when I saved all the nuns at that church by holding up the crumbling pillars with my own two hands. And that?" He pointed to a curved scar just above the edge of his ribs. "That's from the time I fought a dozen bandidos outside of--!"

"Hey, hey! It was a dozen and a _half_ , okay?" Joaquín was grinning at him now, and looked like he hardly felt María's work.

"Ah, of course, forgive me." Manolo winked. "You should round it up to two dozen though. Much more impressive sounding."

" _Joaquín_ does not need to exaggerate," he scoffed. "He's totally awesome all on his own."

"That he is," Manolo said with a smile.

María finished bandaging the wound and, keeping Manolo's eyes the whole time, dropped a soft, secret kiss on Joaquín's shoulder.

* * *

"Tell me," María demanded. Pressing as close as she could, her knee edging into Manolo's lap. "Tell me about your first kiss." Her expression was dark and hungry, and Manolo felt an answering heat coil low in his stomach.

"Well, I don't know about the very first," he said, voice almost completely steady. "We would play games together. Joaquín was always the hero, of course, and the hero gets a kiss as a reward when he saves the day."

"Children's games." She slid into his lap and twined her fingers around the back of his neck. "Tell me about the _real_ kiss."

The real kiss had been when they were fourteen years old. It was hard, after María left, to spend time together, with their different responsibilities pulling at them. Hard, but they always did just the same. Always.

It was a little easier when they could escape and prolong what time they had. That's what they had done that day; hiding away just on the other side of the lake that surrounded San Angel. Close enough that they could still hear the louder sounds of the city, but hidden from view by the thick tree that marked the entrance of the bridge.

By that time Joaquín had shot up but was still spindly and awkward. His muscles would come soon enough. He had just enough facial hair for a mimicry of a mustache, and cared for it religiously. Manolo was only just beginning to fill out, and wouldn't come near Joaquín's height again for some time; and of course, he would never catch up.

Fourteen wasn't a good age for Manolo. What had seemed difficult before seemed impossible now, and what had been only heavy was now crushing. He was developing the wherewithal to fully understand--and resent--the role his father was forcing on him, but was still as powerless as the boy who had unquestioningly followed his father from the town square. With Joaquín, at least, he led and followed in equal measure.

Joaquín, unlike Manolo, rose to the expectations placed on him. He smiled and laughed sincerely with the soldiers, and drank in the attention given him. He made it look easy, which...Manolo wasn't bitter, he was happy for his friend, but sometimes he wanted easy too.

So he pretended like it was. Alone with Joaquín he boasted and swaggered and showed off his bullfighting techniques. He spoke of the bulls as beasts and monsters, and reveled in their imagined downfall. He was the bullfighter his father wanted him to be. The bullfighter he was not and never could be outside of games of pretend.

And Joaquín, well, Joaquín was as boisterous as they had been as boys. He played his own games. The great hero, the decorated soldier. Things he was already learning to be. Things he would become, in time. But he acted as though it were a game anyway, alternating Manolo's acts of pretend bullfighting with his own tales of imagined peril and bravery.

Some of the stories Joaquín told Manolo recognized. They were stories about Joaquín's father, with the son cast in the lead role. On these days, Joaquín would taper off the tales, no clear ending or final triumph given, and instead encourage Manolo to take the lead.

"General Posada says I'm almost as tall as my father now," Joaquín said. They sat side by side, leaning against the rough bark. Joaquín's sword and Manolo's guitar sat abandoned near them.

Manolo knocked Joaquín's feet with his own. "Then he must have been a big man, brother, because I need to get on tiptoes to box your ears."

Joaquín scoffed. "You couldn't on your best day."

"One day I'll surprise you." He sighed, stretched, and leaned back. The sun's heat made him feel hazy and unfocused, but Joaquín's leg against his own kept him grounded. "Maybe we could climb the statue and see. Compare."

"I don't know if that's technically to scale." Joaquín picked through the dust, and slung a rock at some distant cacti. His voice was soft when he said, "Casts a long shadow, though."

Manolo had seen Joaquín sad and unsure. Mournful. But it had been a very long time ago, when they had been children. They weren't anymore, and something in Manolo's chest seized at the achingly lost look on Joaquín's face. If Manolo was pretending his life was easy, Joaquín was pretending his life was fulfilled.

He thought of the years they had spent together, the laughter and tears and long nights talking until dawn. He thought of the athletic displays General Posada liked to put on in the town square, and the intimidating breadth of the bullfighting arena. He thought of María, and wasn't sure why she would come to his thoughts now until he found his hand touching Joaquín's chin gently, turning his friend's face towards him.

María was gone. María had been gone a long time, and she might come back one day, but he and Joaquín were here now. Manolo had thought he could wait-- _still_ thought he could, for many things, but not this. He kissed Joaquín.

It scratched. That silly attempt at a mustache. Joaquín tasted like sweat and dirt, and he slid his hand around the back of Manolo's neck, pressing closer. It was rough, and strange. But when Manolo pulled back, Joaquín's eyes glittered, and his hand was wrapped around Manolo's in the sand.

"Manoloooooo!!"

His father's voice washed over them like a cold rain. There was impatience lacing it, so Manolo worked his jaw, licked his lips, and said, "I should go."

Joaquín's throat bobbed. "Yeah. Me too." He stood first, and reached down to help Manolo up. When they were both on their feet, instead of letting go, Joaquín's grip tightened. "I love you, brother," he said. His eyes didn't leave Manolo's.

Manolo reached out and grasped Joaquín's shoulder. "I love you too."

* * *

Joaquín wanted to go out to the bars, a decision that left María growling and Manolo shaking his head. It would be fine if he would just agree to take it easy. If he wasn't so stupidly insistent on pretending he still didn't get hurt.

"I've gotta show my face," he said. "I want to see everyone."

María tutted and check the wrapping on his shoulder again. Then she carefully took his injured arm and said, "I'm your escort tonight. I don't want to see anyone else hanging off you."

"Well hey," Joaquín said, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "I could never turn down a pretty lady." She snorted and knocked his hip with her own. Manolo rolled his eyes, strapped his guitar to his back, and held the door open for them both.

At the bar María stayed glued to Joaquín's side, seeming so enthralled of his stories that no one dared interrupt them. When someone got too close, arms raised to crash down on his back or loop around his neck in good cheer, she would set her hand against his arm just so, and the exuberant motion would become more sedate. It would have been rude to brush her away, after all.

With María occupying at least half of Joaquín's attention, Manolo stepped aside so that the townsfolk could take turns reveling in the other half. A few times Manolo fetched the two of them drinks or waved over old friends, but for the most part he just sat back and watched.

"Hey, you better watch out, man," Goya said, slipping into the chair next to him and digging an elbow into Manolo's side. "Looks like your woman's eyes might be straying."

Manolo half wished that María's eyes weren't straying quite so much; that she'd heard the soldier refer to her as "his woman," and would upend the table in her rage. But María had a job to do, so Manolo would just have to make his own fun. "Don't be ridiculous. She's only with Joaquín."

A wet, rasping laugh tore its way out of Goya's throat. "That's the trouble, isn't it, man? Joaquín could have any woman he wanted, and I know he wanted your woman." He clapped Manolo on the back, like they were sharing a joke, and downed his beer.

Manolo shrugged the hand aside. "If I can't trust my wife and my best friend, who can I trust?"

"You can trust them alone, sure, but you shouldn't trust them alone _together_ , you hear me?"

 _Unfortunately_. Manolo blocked out Goya's voice and instead watched Joaquín. Who could have any woman he wanted, but had only ever wanted the one at his side.

Someone in the group Joaquín and María were talking with made a joke, and the whole table laughed uproariously. In the ruckus Joaquín's hand slipped down María's waist and pressed ever so lightly against the small of her back.

Goya didn't see it, thank goodness, or he might never have shut up about it. But Manolo did.

* * *

María sat in Manolo's lap, twirling his ponytail around her finger and soaking in the details of his story. Her breath was heavy, her lips barely parted, and Manolo had to grip her hips to center himself.

"Where's Joaquín?" she demanded. "Where is he now?"

Manolo laughed breathlessly, leaning down to kiss her shoulder. "I don't know where he gets to. Here and there. Anywhere a hero is needed."

"Don't the other towns have heroes of their own?" She sounded positively petulant, and he kissed away her pout, running his knuckles across the curve of her waist.

"Perhaps. But he will always go when they call for him." Always.

The first time he had watched Joaquín leave had been only a few days after their first kiss. A coincidence; they hadn't had a chance to speak afterwards, but when they did pass each other in the days after they shared stolen glances and shy, secret smiles. It gave Manolo a pep in his step, and after his bullfighting was done he left to see if he could tempt Joaquín away from General Posada for a few hours.

He never got a chance to ask. Almost without noticing he was swept up in a sudden crowd, their gasps and cries sounding around the square. A man, bruised and bloodied, tumbled off his horse and onto the general's feet.

"Please," he said, grasping. "Please, we need help!"

General Posada gasped. The soldiers cowered. Joaquín bounded forward, helped the man to his feet, and said, "Show us the way!" He didn't see Manolo standing at the end of the crowd. He didn't wave goodbye. And then he was gone.

They wouldn't return for three weeks. In that time Manolo paced, and prayed, and fretted. He was nearly gouged twice and finally his father sent him away with a stern glare and a gentle pat on the back. He didn't know yet that Joaquín couldn't be hurt. That he would always come home. So he sharpened his swords and tuned his guitar and didn't sing at all, because the words caught in his throat.

When Joaquín did return he knew it only because of the shouts of joy in the streets. It was late, later than he should have been awake, but he gasped and struggled into his clothes and darted outside.

"Manny!" Joaquín cried as soon as they laid eyes on each other. He was shining and vibrant, not a mark on his skin and not a hair out of place. Manolo was swept up into a crushing hug as soon as he got close.

"You should have seen it!" Joaquín crowed. "We _annihilated_ those crooks! It was brutal!"

Manolo gasped; Joaquín had squeezed the air from his lungs and there wasn't enough breath for the whoop he wanted to give. There was a gaggle of girls around to step in before he could recover. "Tell us again," said Nina, squeezing her arm around Joaquín's. "How many were there?"

Joaquín dropped Manolo, but kept an arm around his neck. "At least twenty! They had the whole place locked up tight! But see, we had a plan..." Manolo laughed, pressed close, and listened to his friend.

Everyone in San Angel celebrated Joaquín that night. Manolo thought he had seen the townspeople at the height of their flattery, but he'd had no idea. Now that Joaquín had finally fulfilled his long believed potential, nearly everyone was at his feet. Joaquín drank it up, fed on it, let himself be carried up and away. Let the men cheer him and the girls fawn over him. And Manolo, who would never want to sour his great triumph, smiled and stayed by his side as long as he could.

At the end of the night, when most of the revelers had stumbled to their homes or at least the closest quiet corner, Joaquín slipped into an alley with Nina. Manolo sat on a stoop near the entrance with Claudia, and fiddled with his guitar. She clearly wasn't happy at being the left over, but her eyes lit up at the soft strums, and when she begged him to play a song for her he tried, he really did. Tonight words wouldn't come to him, so he sang a song written by someone other than him for someone other than her. She didn't seem to notice the difference, and when she leaned over to kiss him at the end of it he let her.

It didn't last much longer than that. She wasn't patient enough to wait for Nina anymore, and he wasn't interested enough to ask her to stay, so she went home and he was left to trace patterns in the dust with the toe of his boot.

An indeterminable amount of time later Nina finally sashayed out of the alley, looking smug. Joaquín followed a moment later, face flushed and with more than just his hair out of place now. He saw Manolo sitting still and gave him a silly grin.

"What a night!" he said. "Incredible!" He pumped his fists in the air, swung a punch hard enough to send himself stumbling, and collapsed at Manolo's feet, not even seeming to feel the heavy thud of his body against the ground. He closed his eyes, laughing, looking so perfectly happy that something hard and tight in Manolo's chest eased.

 _So that's it_ , Manolo thought, and resolved not to think of it anymore. "Oh yes, incredible." He nudged Joaquín’s chin with his boot, and grinned when Joaquín cracked his eyes open. "But you need to be careful, brother, or you're going to get an incredibly large head."

"If you got it, flaunt it," Joaquín said with a grin. "I'm telling you, one day _everyone's_ going to know my name."

"Joaquín, I'm pretty sure everyone in Mexico with working ears knows your name by now. But maybe you should scream it a few more times, just to be sure."

Joaquín laughed, and Manolo did too, and thought, _So this is it_. One of Joaquín's hands was on his chest, pressed over his heart. The other idly knocked against Manolo's knee, seemingly just for the contact. They met eyes and grinned again.

 _This is enough_.

"Liar," María called him now, and he shrugged sheepishly. Her expression had gone cool and considering during his story, and to his disappointment she slipped off his lap. "I know why he left then. I know why he goes now. But he's not the invincible hero anymore. He is only a man."

"A good man," Manolo said. "A good fighter."

"A selfless man. If a little stupid." María frowned, her jaw working. "Why doesn't he stay?"

"What reason does he have to stay?" Manolo asked. She shot him a look that meant he was the one being a little stupid now.

"This is his home." She enunciated clearly, like a schoolmarm giving a lesson. "I didn't understand--I didn't have time to ask--but why does he need a reason more than that? My father tried to tempt him with a _woman_ ," he didn't dare laugh at the distaste in her face, "but he never just _asked_. Has anyone ever asked Joaquín to stay?"

It was a blindingly simple question that hit him with the strength of a rampaging bull. "Well..." He heard the high pitched strain in his voice, and preemptively flinched at the stormclouds gathering on María's face.

"Manolo..." she growled, grabbing his chin in a firm grip. "Tell me you didn't just _let_ him leave."

"Maybe...I will...talk to him?" He tried not to let her drag him too close. Did she still bite when she was angry? She had more than once as a child.

"You'll do more than that," María said. It was a promise and a threat.

* * *

There was something, María insisted, to be said for subtlety. (Her exact words were, "You both try too damn hard.") Testing the waters, she said. So it became almost a game. How close could they press together, and how close to Joaquín, before he got flustered? Would he clear his throat after one kiss, or two, or three? What if they were interspersed with talk of the market? Sweet words of affection? How far could they tilt, so that they could just see him out of the corner of his eyes, but he couldn't tell they were watching him watching them?

 _A little further_ , Manolo decided. He pressed against María, molding her back to his front, and fanned his fingers across her hips to turn her just a few degrees more. Joaquín was in the kitchen doorway. He probably thought he hadn't been noticed yet. Seeing him, María pressed back against Manolo even more firmly.

There. A clearing of the throat. "Hey, so, I was thinking about breakfast? If you guys want to come. But if you're busy that's okay, I completely understand." There was a nervous break in his voice that made Manolo think of blustering boy he had once been, and smile.

"Never too busy for you, my friend." Manolo pulled away.

"Just give me a few minutes," María said. She walked past Joaquín through the doorway, making sure to pass much too close, so that her hip just barely nudged his and her wild hair brushed his arm. He turned to watch her walk away before remembering himself and looking back at Manolo with an abashed grin and guilty eyes.

Behind him, María turned around and winked.

Manolo smirked and shook his head. "What?" Joaquín asked. Manolo quickly focused on him and shook his head again, harder.

"Nothing. Let's go to the patio and wait for her." He looped his arm around Joaquín's shoulders, mindful of the still healing gash, and led him outside.

 _Well played, wife_.

It was tricky, though, to play games of the heart. Especially when the one you were playing with was an unknowing participant.

After breakfast María wanted to work in the garden. Manolo and Joaquín followed her and fussed until she dismissed them with an annoyed flap of her hands. She clearly had a vision they were obstructing, so Manolo went to the market to pick up a few things and Joaquín disappeared into the guest room to polish his medals.

On his return Manolo put away his things and headed towards the back to see what progress had been made. He was arrested as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. There, at the doorway to the patio, looking out, was Joaquín. Manolo could hear María humming faintly. When she passed briefly in front of the open door, there was a smooth elegance in her movements. She moved like a dancer, sometimes, when she was feeling especially peaceful and secure. When the happiness welled up in her so powerfully that it had to have an outlet. For a moment, watching Joaquín watching her, everything fell perfectly into place.

Except...

Joaquín's eyes were wet, his face lined and tense. He slumped against the doorway like a man exhausted. Or maybe hopeless. Manolo's throat bobbed. He reached out, hesitated, and then went to his friend.

Joaquín heard him a few steps away. As soon as their eyes met he recoiled from the doorway like it was ringed with fire. "Manny!" he cried, lips twisting into a truly confused attempt at a smile. "I didn't see--I mean I wasn't, uh, you know I would never, um..." He cleared his throat and settled his hands on his belt, his smile a touch more natural but his eyes still wide with panic and guilt. "The, uh, garden's coming along great! You should go see it. I don't think María's all upset anymore, so..."

"That's always good to hear," Manolo said carefully, lightly. "Let's go see, eh?"

"Actually, you know, I've--I've been bumming off you guys too long as it is, probably. Don't want to get in the way of the marriage bed, or whatever. I should, uh." He took a step back, then another. "I should probably get on my way pretty soon."

"No!" Manolo said, much too fast and much too loud. Outside María stopped humming. "You should stay, you..." Where was María? Why had she thought he could do this by himself? He could never make Joaquín stay. "Your wounds aren't even healed," he said at last. "You aren't invincible anymore, brother. At least get in fighting shape before you head out."

There was a long, long beat while guilt and something like want warred on Joaquín's face. Finally he nodded, and Manolo had to fight not to sigh in relief.

"Good," he said, carefully slipping an arm around Joaquín's waist to lead him outside. "Now let's go see what María has done." Joaquín relaxed at the easy smile on his face.

It was a weak promise. Joaquín's wounds would heal eventually. But he was here now, and that was better than the alternative. He'd have to come up with something for when that happened. Maybe if it worked once it could work again. _Stay because I need someone to help me fix the roof. Stay because María is almost finished with her painting, and she wants you to see. Stay because we need someone to help protect the orphans when we take them on trips._

 _Stay because we love you_.

Manolo shook his head. It was never as easy as he thought. María had shown him that.

Or was it?

* * *

María and Manolo had a talk, and then they had a plan. It was a good one, María insisted, but she still bit nervously at her knuckles and worried the edge of her shirt. Manolo adjusted the tuning of his guitar so often that María finally slapped at his hands and told him for the first time ever to _stop playing for a little while, honestly_.

Shortly before Joaquín was due to return from his visit with General Posada, Manolo suggested opening a bottle of wine, and María practically melted in gratitude. Joaquín, he knew, preferred to keep his senses sharp over the heady buzz of wine, and Manolo figured that between him and María one of them should probably keep a clear head, so he only took one glass and turned down the second. María kept going until the third, and he tried not to worry.

When Joaquín walked through the door though, his smile wide and gait easy, all their nervousness melted away. Joaquín was home. Where he belonged.

"There he is!" María cried, leaning back against the couch cushions. "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, the guys are always worth a laugh." She waved him down to sit between her and Manolo. She made a token offer of the wine, but he graciously declined.

"And what was the topic tonight, oh hero?" she asked, eyes sparkling. "More dramatic reenactments of your daring deeds?"

"Well, you know, I am here to please." He settled an arm over each of their shoulders and winked. María laughed.

"We were telling our own stories here," Manolo said, turning to face Joaquín a little more fully.

"Oh yeah?" Joaquín turned to him. "About bullfighting? Or _Euuuuurrrrrrrrope_?"

"Mostly about you, actually," Manolo said. Joaquín's eyes lit up like a child given candy. He actually tucked his hands under his chin and leaned forward.

"Those are my favorite kind of stories! Which ones were you telling? Oh, oh, did it have anything to do with those goons I roughed up outside of Machado? That's one of my favorites," he said conspiratorially, leaning back against María.

"No," María said with a laugh. "Not those kinds of stories. Secret stories." The last words were said in a whisper, close to Joaquín's ear. He shivered just a bit.

"Secret stories?"

"Stories only we know," Manolo said. "Do you remember? When I lost my shoe down that ravine and you went to get it instead of letting me go home barefoot."

"Oh, like when we were kids." He settled against the couch again, looking curious and happy. "What else?"

The stories they told had been carefully chosen. There were so many, _so_ many stories about Joaquín's heroics. How he risked himself to help others. There were many less stories about his less violent acts of kindness. Joaquín, until recently, was really not a selfless man. It was easy to throw his body into danger when he knew he could not be hurt. But even when his body had been impervious, his heart never was. So the times he opened it meant more than a thousand battles.

María remembered the times he had stepped forward to take a punishment meant for her, simply because he found a spanking from the nuns preferable to missing María while she was grounded. The times he had talked her down from some foolish idea, or even physically restrained her when she seemed determined to drive herself into danger. As a child he'd only ever gotten a tongue lashing and occasional slap across the cheek for his trouble. Now María stroked that same cheek and thanked him for caring for her more than she had known for herself.

Manolo told stories about how Joaquín had always been able to find him when he was at his lowest and bring him back up. How he would listen to Manolo experiment on the guitar for hours on end, most of it rough and screeching and not fit for human ears, and soothe his frustration with purposely horrible singing that made even the harsh twang of the guitar sounds better in comparison. He had introduced Manolo to the Rodriguez brothers when it became apparent he wouldn't always be around when Manolo might need him, but when he was there no one else would do.

Once, after a particularly bad fight where his father had derided his music again and again, Manolo had come very close to smashing his guitar in a fit of frustrated rage. Joaquín had been there. He hadn't said, "Stop," but he did say, "Wait," and held Manolo as tight as he could, until the anger had drained away and left only guilt that he had almost destroyed something so precious.

(He'd told María the whole story earlier, in case she would get upset he had been so careless with her gift. Instead of the anger he expected, she had simply cupped his face and kissed him very, very gently.)

It was a different kind of praise than Joaquín was used to. The kind where his worth was measured not by his actions, but by the emotions behind them. He grew flustered, more so when Manolo and María refused to let him change the direction of the conversation, and finally broke his tension with a laugh.

"Please, you guys, I'm not..." He chuckled again, scrubbing at the back of his neck with a nervous hand. "I'm not all that."

"You're a good man," Manolo said, catching and holding his gaze.

"A great man!" María called suddenly, slamming her empty cup onto the bureau in front of her. She'd stood to get a glass of water from the basin, but it wasn't nearly enough to undo the effects of the wine, and she swayed for a moment. "But not a perfect one," she said at last. She sauntered over, limbs loose and hips rolling, and dropped into Joaquín's lap.

One of Joaquín's hands shot out and clutched at Manolo's sleeve. The other hovered uncertainly several inches above her back. This close all their knees were knocking together, and Joaquín didn't even notice when Manolo's hand fell gently onto María's leg.

He sputtered and stammered, torn between jerking back out of propriety and leaning into her warmth, but she didn't give him a chance to make a decision either way. "Joaquín," she said, voice deceptively sweet before taking him roughly by the chin and squeezing his cheeks. "What is a woman's place?"

 _This wasn't part of the plan_ , Manolo thought. Joaquín gulped, gave a nervous grin, and said, "Wherever she wants to be."

María's eyes lit up, and Manolo felt the last piece falling into place. Of course. It wasn't ever quite that easy with María, but Joaquín had risen to the challenge. "Good!" she crowed, releasing his chin and letting her touch fall to his chest. "He can learn!"

"Yeah." His voice still had a nervous break, so he cleared his throat. "I just wanna say, I'm real sorry about the way I--"

This time he was interrupted by her lips on his. At the sight Manolo's whole body caught fire. For a moment, a perfect moment, everything was frozen just like this: One of María's hands at the back of Joaquín's neck, and the other on his chest. Joaquín's good eye was still open in shock, but half lidded and hungry. And Manolo, his breath caught in his lungs and his heart stopped in his chest.

_If I die right now, I will tear down every brick in the underworld to get back to them._

He was not dead. His heart was hammering, in fact, and he suddenly felt overheated. María pulled away with a small, achingly soft sigh, and Joaquín instinctively leaned after her, his eye finally falling closed.

Then it shot open again, and he reared back so sharply his head cracked against the wall. "Oh man." His hands shot into the air, well away from them both, like he was offering surrender. Or asking for mercy. "Oh, man, Manolo, I am _so_ sorry." Joaquín's eye darted between them both in acute distress. "I'm _so_ sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, I didn't mean to--"

"Whoa, calm down, brother," Manolo said, voice light. "Why are you apologizing? I think María should be the one to apologize." He turned towards his wife, meeting her smirk with his own. "María, that was very rude. You didn't even ask him."

"You're right, I'm so sorry, Joaquín," she said with exaggerated cordiality, a laugh lacing her voice. "May I please kiss you again?" She did giggle now, and reached up to brush his bangs back.

At the touch Joaquín gasped, and María froze. The easy playfulness drained from the room, leaving something much deeper and heavier. Her chest heaved, and she scratched lightly as she ran her hand through his hair.

"Please?" Her voice was thick and raw. Joaquín shuddered to hear it, his breath bursting out in a heavy exhale. Carefully, so, so carefully, he set a hand on her hip. But still he didn't move.

His other hand brushed Manolo's on the couch. Manolo tangled their fingers together, and at the first touch Joaquín grabbed his hand like a vise. It looked like it caused him physical pain to turn away from María, but he did so he could meet Manolo's eyes.

"Please," Manolo said quietly, running his thumb up and down Joaquín's hand. This close he almost thought he could feel someone else's heart pounding through his skin, although he couldn't tell whose. Joaquín scanned his face once more, then turned back to María. And nodded.

The second kiss moved through them all like a sigh. Joaquín's hand in Manolo's went slack, and then held firm again. When María pulled away she had a smile on her lips, and this time Joaquín did too.

She leaned back with a happy hum. "Manolo," she drawled, combing her fingers through Joaquín's hair again, "come and help me. You're making me do all the work."

"Forgive me, mi amor." He turned, trying to press even closer. It was awkward, with María still in Joaquín's lap, but she gamefully leaned back and Joaquín met him halfway and dear God in Heaven he hadn't known how much he had missed this. _Liar_ , María had called him, and she was right.

Soft. So much softer than the stubble of his youth, and Manolo had to fight not to laugh into the kiss, because Joaquín had been right about the appeal of a real mustache. When they parted María was watching them with a stunning intensity. Manolo had seen that look often and knew it well; Joaquín hadn't, but a man would have to be blind to not know what a look like that meant.

He felt the heat coiling in his gut again, but María's limbs were heavy with wine, and the flush on Joaquín's face was as much from nerves as excitement. So he smiled at them both and pulled away. Giving them room to breath.

"I think," he said, standing, "that it's time for you to go to bed, bella. You're drunk."

María pouted but didn't protest as he carefully picked her up out of Joaquín's lap. It wasn't strictly necessary--she wasn't gone nearly far enough to have trouble on her feet--but he loved the feel of her in his arms.

She sighed, buried her face in his neck, and said, "Make him stay, Manolo. Make him stay with us." She pressed close, but when her eyes opened it was Joaquín she was looking at. "Make him stay forever."

Manolo looked at his oldest friend. The man he loved above all others. "Well," he said. "How about it?"

Joaquín, still slack jawed and red faced, looked from Manolo to María and back again.

And nodded.

* * *

There was no wedding for the three of them. They thought about it, of course; whether or not the townspeople and the priest would be grateful enough to grant this favor to the three heroes of San Angel. But they'd all been through a ceremony each--María twice--and in the end there wasn't anyone else they wanted badly enough to attend that it felt worth the trouble.

Which is how they ended up breaking into the church in the middle of the night.

"Did you study lockpicking too?" Manolo asked, watching María work.

"Not officially. You have to make your own fun in a convent." The door fell open. She gave them a smug smile and led them inside.

"This isn't, you know, blasphemous or anything, right?" Joaquín asked, eyes up in the rafters of the empty chapel. "We're not going to be struck by lightning?"

"Oh please," María said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "If I was going to be struck down for blaspheming in a church it would have happened a long time ago. Now." She spun around in front of the pulpit and took Joaquín's hand. "Manolo?"

He reached down and pulled his guitar from its hiding place under a pew. Joaquín gave a surprised laugh. "Aw, come on, you don't have to do that."

"Hey! You are going to sit down and listen to my song." Joaquín laughed again. María guided him to a pew and curled against his side, while Manolo dropped to one knee in front of them.

He hadn't thought about what he was going to sing before this very moment. He never did. _My words come from the heart_ , he thought, and just like that he had his song.

He sang about old love, love growing and changing. About the strength needed to hold onto it, and kindness to nurture it when it wanted to become brittle. About how Joaquín gave him that strength.

At the end of it Joaquín's good eye shone with tears, and he grabbed Manolo by the collar to pull him into a rough kiss the instant he was close enough. Several long moments later, Manolo finally pulled back with a sigh. "Hey, María, are you just going to watch?"

"Maybe," she said with a twinkle in her eye. But then she reached under her seat to pull out a long, narrow package, and held it out to Joaquín.

Now he did cry. "You guys," he wheezed, "you gotta tell me if we're doing gifts. I don't want to keep messing this up!"

"You're not messing anything up," María said with a gentle laugh. "Here, open it."

It was a sword, perfectly weighted and polished to gleaming. Joaquín held it with reverence. He carefully pulled it from the scabbard, turned it over, and then saw the inscription on the blade near the hilt: _Never stop fighting for what's right_.

He keened, almost. María made a gentle soothing noise, kissing away his tears and ending up at his lips. He rubbed his cheek against hers, then fought to gather himself, leaning back with a heavy sigh.

"I feel really unprepared for all this," he said, looking between the sword and Manolo's guitar.

Manolo chuckled softly and shifted to sit next to him on the pew. "We didn't expect you to--"

"Oh oh wait! Wait wait wait! Here." Joaquín thrust his sword into María's hands and leapt to his feet, pacing several feet away with his back to them. "Hold on just a sec, I got this." Manolo and María looked at each other, shrugged, and shifted closer together.

When Joaquín turned back around he had a medal in each hand. "Alright, come here. I got this," he said again. Manolo bit his lip, and María beamed. They went to stand in front of their husband.

"Okay, so," Joaquín said, fastening a medal over Manolo's heart. "If anyone asks you about these, you're free to use my completely awesome backstories, or you can use your own. Or just tell people that a very handsome man with an incredible mustache gave them to you." María giggled as he pinned hers over her heart. "Actually, just go with that last one, that's a good one."

He stepped back, beaming and proud. "So we're square, right?" he asked, "We're all good?"

"We're wonderful, mi amor." María cupped his cheeks and gave him another peck. "Now, go kiss your groom."

"Yes ma'am," he said, and looked at Manolo, his smile bright and brilliant. Manolo returned it in kind and leaned in.

* * *

"Tell us about this one," Manolo said, pointing to a thin scar on Joaquín's chest, right near his heart.

Joaquín's eyes lit up, but at the last moment he demurred. "Aw, come on, you know that story already. I'm pretty sure you helped bandage it up."

"Oh, but you tell it so well!" María said as she crawled across the bed towards them. She used the cheerful, cloying tone that Manolo privately referred to as her teasing voice. Joaquín didn't recognize it yet. There was much he didn't know about her, much Manolo was still learning as well. So much she had missed about them in San Angel. But they had time to learn it. They had the rest of their lives.

"Well," Joaquín said, and then he was off. Manolo and María shared amused smiles, and curled up on either side of him. Strange, that they hadn't realized before the bed was too big for the two of them alone. But now everything was perfectly in place.

 _Thank you_ , Manolo thought to La Muerte and his mother and everyone else who had helped him get home. Back to the people he loved most in the world.

 _Thank you_.


End file.
